


Light your candle with wildfire

by FixaIdea



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Asexual Character, Canon Era, Fix-It, M/M, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 11:59:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4624521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FixaIdea/pseuds/FixaIdea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After surviving 1832 by pure chance Les Amis move on with their lives and the group scatters. The loss of his little found family leaves Feuilly devastated and lonely.</p><p>Apparently he's not the only one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

June, 1835.

Feuilly glared at the glass of wine in his hand. He had no right to be sad or even upset, surely he was merely being ungrateful. There was no call to be brooding like this. So what if he was a little lost and lonely? By all rights he shouldn’t even be alive.

Les Amis survived (or rather, missed) the 1832 insurrection by complete accident: half the group was out of town when general Lamarque died, some of the others laid up with illness. Unfortunately one of their aquantices, captured in the fights, had a looser tongue than anticipated, which led to the arrest of Enjolras. They couldn’t prove anything: Enjolras has always been careful in covering his trail and he wouldn’t confess to anything. He was never convicted, but the investigation dragged on and on and he was only released in late 1834 – which (as he’d managed to get a word to Combeferre not to start anything without him) meant they missed the uprising of April that year too.

Enjolras emerged from prison with his head held high, but covered in bruises, his ribs showing, beautiful hair shorn and something brittle behind his eyes.

Two month later Bahorel married his laughing mistress.

It was like the breaking of a dam, all the young men suddenly remembered their professional or familial obligations. None of them forgot about or denied their republican conviction (except for Grantaire who never had any to begin with) but all agreed that the political climate wasn’t fit for a drastic move, and in the meantime they might as well get on with their lives.

Courfeyrac and Jehan moved back south, shortly followed by Grantaire. Joly and Lesgle found out that Musichetta was with a child and were now making slightly panicked arrangements to care for them, and possibly to decide who should be The Husband. Combeferre was offered a place on a prestigious botanical expedition which, after repeated reassurances from his friends, he accepted.

Which were all good and well, and of course Feuilly was happy for each and every one of them, but it also meant that he suddenly lost the little family he found with them. The first family he’s ever had.

It wasn’t like they cut contact with him or actively shut him out of their life, no. He still received and sent letters, and even met them from time to time but nowhere near as often as before. Nothing was the same anymore.

Feuilly, by nature wasn’t given to brooding, but one June night he gave in to his increasing loneliness. This was how the fine, warm evening found him staring moodily into his wine in the Corinth, trying to ignore a group of loud strangers in the far corner. He was about to leave when he suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Enjolras.

‘Good evening my fried. May I sit?’

Feuilly nodded and pushed a chair out for him.

‘What brings you here? Is all well with you?’

‘I was looking for you, actually. I have a proposal for you.’

Ah yes. Good old Enjolras and his aversion to small talk. Straight to the point, as ever.

‘I’m all ears, my good citizen.’ Feuilly said with a little smile.

Enjolras was silent for a moment, then looked him straight in the eye.

‘I’m looking for a roommate.’

‘A roommate?’

‘Yes. I find that I… That I could use some company, but I also rather it be someone I already know and trust, as I’m sure you can understand.’

Feuilly nodded.

‘Would you move in with me?’

Enjolras reached up to brush his hair out of his eyes, a deep set habit – only to stop his hand halfway to his face, cross his arms and look down, embarrassed. Feuilly was careful not to react but his throat clenched slightly. While Enjolras scorned any and all vanity, his shiny, golden mane seemed to be a bit of an exception. He obviously put a lot of effort into caring for it and he let it grow a lot longer than what the fashion of the day allowed for. Now this tiny luxury, the only one Enjolras allowed himself, was gone. While it began to grow back it still wasn’t longer than an inch, and has turned white around the temples.

Feuilly leant back in his chair.

‘I’ve seen your lodgings, Enjolras. Even half the rent must be way more than I can afford.’

‘We don’t have to split evenly, I had no problems paying for it on my own so far. If you want to chip in, you can go on paying what you have for your own flat.’

Feuilly nodded again and considered the suggestion in silence. It sounded attractive enough, and he was infinitely grateful Enjolras didn’t even try to convince him to move in for free and live off of his dime.

‘But what would you tell the neighbours?’ he asked finally.

‘They don’t need a reason’ said Enjolras with a shrug ‘Two bachelors rooming together isn’t exactly unheard of. I could also tell them I took a lodger because I need the money. They don’t have to know said money isn’t being used to pay the rent but to buy paper for republican pamphlets.’

‘No, I suppose, they don’t have to know.’

Feuilly smiled a little. Enjolras rarely told outright lies, but one didn’t get away with leading a revolutionary cell without knowing how to bend the truth so far out of shape it became unrecognisable, even without claiming falsehoods. Saying nothing was Enjolras’ favourite technique, but sometimes complete silence was suspicious.  
In these cases he preferred lying by ‘technical truth’, speaking in a way his audience could be trusted to misconstruct what he said.

Feuilly scratched his chin and looked back at Enjolras, who was watching him expectantly.

‘Could you give me a day or so to think about it?’

‘Of course.’

There seemed to be something odd about Enjolras. He’s always been a very quiet, reclusive person, who always seemed a little distant and sad, and so it was nigh impossible to gauge his actual emotions. That nature chose to paint his too-thin eyelids perpetually red-rimmed didn’t exactly help matters either.  
Still, as they stood to leave and shook hands, Feuilly could have sworn there was something wrong with his posture. As if a great weight was pressing down his shoulders.

***

That night, sleep refused to come. Feuilly lay tossing and turning on the hay-sack he called his bed. His previous conversation with Enjolras wouldn’t leave him alone.

Where did the offer even come from? Could Enjolras’ motives actually be as simple as he claimed them to be? Or was it a circumspect attempt at charity? But Enjolras didn’t try to dissuade him from paying rent, so it wasn’t about him being poor. Was it his living conditions? More than one of Les Amis have offered to help him move in the past…

But it wasn’t like Enjolras to approach matters in such a complicated manner. If he outright stated it was about him wanting a roommate, then maybe that was all there was to it. …But he never seemed to have a problem with living alone before, did he?

But then, neither did Feuilly. Because they had the rest of Les Amis. Could it be that the scattering of the group hit Enjolras as hard as it did Feuilly? Perish the thought. Proud, strong Enjolras going out of his way to ask for help because he was a little lonely? Absurd.

But maybe he guessed just how lost Feuilly himself felt? He was so good at reading people, so why not?

Feuilly stared at the ceiling.

It wasn’t like things even had the chance to change for him. His found family was dispersed, he’s never known his blood relations and he couldn’t even afford to marry and raise children of his own.

He tried once. She was the daughter of a grocer. While Feuilly had some fleeting romances that led nowhere before, this girl was the only one who has truly captured his heart.

Sadly her father was less than impressed by Feuilly’s pay-check, so he wouldn’t let her marry him. Shortly after the family moved to Lyon.

Feuilly sighed into the darkness. Maybe it was for the best. Even if he had the money to give his hypotethic children the life they deserved there was no guarantee his republican convictions wouldn’t get him killed. That Les Amis didn’t get killed or captured in 1832 was pure chance, and it was highly unlikely they’d be so lucky next time.

And there would have to be a next time.

Feuilly got up and got dressed. His mind was made up, and sleep was avoiding him anyway.

He went to find Enjolras.

***

Feuilly wasn’t surprised at all to find Enjolras’ window still alight, even at such an ungodly hour. This made it even stranger when the other man took so long answering the door.

When he finally did, his dark form outlined against the light leaking from his room, he ushered Feuilly in wordlessly. He led him into his study and offered him a seat. Now that he had the chance to study the other at the light of a candle, Feuilly noticed that his eyes were pink and his face slightly blotchy.

‘What is the matter?’

Enjolras merely shook his head and sat down, facing Feuilly.

‘What may I do for you?’

‘I was thinking. About what you said. And, well, I think I’ve decided.’

Enjolras nodded gravely, looking at Feuilly like a convict awaiting his sentence.

‘I’m grateful for your offer and if it still stands, I’d gladly take it.’

The transformation was instant and spectacular. Enjolras’ whole face lit up, he jumped to his feet and, taking Feuilly by the arm began to show him around the flat, enthusiastically explaining the odder habits of his landlady, pointing out where to find the privy and already planning out how and when to help Feuilly move.

The flat had two bedrooms, a living room, a small kitchen and a tiny study.

‘You might find my presence bothersome, though’ said Feuilly ‘I have to get up at five o’ clock, sometimes even earlier.’

‘And I rarely go to bed before two in the morning. Don’t fret, my friend. That spare room has housed more than one of Les Amis before, most often Combeferre’ Enjolras said, with unmistakable melancholy in his voice ‘But I’ve had Bossuet and Bahorel over too, sometimes. I can’t imagine how you could be any louder or arrive at more inconvenient hours than those two.’

‘Admittedly, not being louder than Bahorel isn’t much of a standard’ said Feuilly, laughing a little.

‘See? All will be well. So…’ Enjolras was shifting his weight awkwardly ‘Will you stay the night?’

‘If you’ll have me.’

Enjolras smiled again, a small, sad little thing. Then he hesitantly opened his arms and stepped a little closer.

It took Feuilly a second to realize what he wanted, and by that time Enjolras, discouraged, started to drop his arms. Feuilly quickly stepped forward and pulled him into a hug.

Enjolras melted. There was no better word for it. He clung to Feuilly like his life depended on it. Feuilly frowned. But of course. How could he not see it? Enjolras had no living relatives that would still talk to him, and no friends outside the core of Les Amis. He was just as desperately lonely as Feuilly, and this arrangement served his benefit as much as it did his. Feuilly pulled him a little closer, caressing a little spot on his back with his thumb.

‘There now. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not going to leave you.’


	2. Chapter 2

January, 1838

  
Feuilly woke with a start, to the sound of the six o’ clock bells. He was about to shoot out of bed when his mind finally caught up with him and reminded him of his new routine. He smiled and snuggled back under the covers with a relieved sigh.

  
He’d left behind his old job of a fan-maker almost two years ago, but even now he could hardly believe his luck.

  
It began with one of Enjolras’ not-technically-lies. See, he never outright claimed that Feuilly was his long-lost cousin, that one of his many aquentinces, the principal of an elementary school at the Fauburg Saint Antoine, misunderstood him so really wasn’t his fault, now was it?  
Anyway, the principal needed a teacher and Enjolras was quick to vouche for Feuilly. And even if, by the end of his probation time, the man began to doubt Feuilly’s origins, he was impressed enough by his intelligence, hard work and his patience with children not to pry.

  
This was how Feuilly ended up an elementary school teacher and, thanks to the winter break, for the first time in his life found himself with an amazing amount of free time.  
He rolled around with a contented smile – and wrapped his arms around Enjolras. Ah yes, that was another novelty.

  
Theirs was an odd relationship – if you could even call it a relationship. It was hard to say how or when it started, but if Feuilly absolutely had to pin it down somewhere, he’d say it began with a conversation they had back in 1836, on a May afternoon.

  
Feuilly has always known Enjolras liked and respected him – he’d said so repeatedly and his behaviour certainly matched his words. But since he moved in with the man Feuilly began to wander if maybe there was more to his affection that simple friendship.  
Not that Enjolras ever made any unwanted advances, he was always perfectly proper and respectful, but it was hard to ignore the way he sometimes looked at Feuilly, like he personally made the Sun rise each morning.

And then there were the hugs and tiny touches. Nothing out of line or more than you’d expect of a close friend, but way more than you’d expect of Enjolras. If Feuilly didn’t know Enjolras’ contempt for romance he’d have thought he was completely bessoten with him.

But then again, he’d only ever heard Enjolras decry romance with women.

At first Feuilly didn’t really know what to think or how to feel about the prospect. He himself also had a rather limited interest in love, and he certainly never gave any thought to romance between men before. It was something he knew happened sometimes but, having no stake in it, he never had any reason to dwell on the matter. It had nothing to do with world politics, and the private life of others, as long as what they did didn’t hurt anyone was none of Feuilly’s business.  
Now that he had to stop and consider it he found that while the thought of laying with another man didn’t actively disgust him he wasn’t exactly keen to try it either.  
But then again, Enjolras never so much as tried to kiss him, so where did that leave them? What if he was simply being friendly and Feuilly was overthinking things? But what if he was actually in love with him and he was leading him on? Was he leading him on? How do you even bring up this matter? Enjolras was very straightforward and blunt, but simply blurting ‘are you in love with me?’ at him seemed more than a little improper, regardless.

The matter resolved itself when on a quiet afternoon Feuilly told his friend about his lost fiancée and asked if he’s ever had his heart broken like that. Enjolras’ answer was a simple no and Feuilly thought he’ll leave the matter at that, but after a brief silence the other went on.

‘I don’t think I’m capable of falling in love.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Just what I said. Courfeyrac, Jehan, Marius… They all talk about romance as some unstoppable, cosmic experience, some deep, maddening desire and… I just don’t understand it.’

He sighed and shifted, visibly uncomfortable.

‘The others would sometimes discuss their conquests and… how they’d pass their time with their mistresses. I… I can’t imagine why would anyone willingly participate in such acts… ’

‘You don’t have to go on if you don’t want to.'

Enjolras shook his head and wrapped his arms around himself.

‘People either assume I gave up love by choice, that I swore celibacy for the cause or that I have no heart at all.’

Feuilly reached across the table and squeezed his friend’s arm.

‘Anyone who thinks you have no heart or that you are incapable of any kind of love either doesn’t know you at all or is out of his mind. So, you have no desire for marriage at all?’

Enjolras hummed.

‘Marriage and romance only go hand in hand in the rarest of cases. But no.’

He lapsed into silence again.

‘You know…’ he went on after a while ‘Combeferre was right, I was unfair in my assessment of women. It is obvious that it’s society and not nature that puts them in an inferior place. But even so… if I had to choose a companion for life I’d much rather it be a man. I have no logical reason…’

Feuilly nodded and smiled a little.

‘So our arrangement is ideal, isn’t it?’

Enjolras shrugged.

‘I may not want to marry, but surely you would, with time.’

‘I don’t suppose I would, no.’

Enjolras raised an eyebrow.

‘You see, our life is still not without danger. I wouldn’t risk dragging down a wife with me or, God forbid, leave children behind, should our republican work be discovered. I’d rather spend my life alone. But if I had the option to spend it by the side of a willing comrade who knows and accepts the risk, I’d obviously choose that.’  
Enjolras’ smile was sudden and warm, but he quickly suppressed it and schooled back his features into a neutral mask. Feuilly shook his head fondly and moved closer to him.  
‘René, please. You don’t have to supress your feelings around me. I know you’re not made of marble. So is this what you want, too? To share the rest of your life with a friend and nothing more?’

Enjolras nodded… and then ducked his head, beet red.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing. It’s ridiculous. Shameful.’

‘René.’

‘Oh all right… It’s just that I… Well, I really like being held.’

Feuilly fought the urge to laugh or roll his eyes. This had to be the most innocent ‘shameful secret’ in the history of forever.

‘I think I can live with that.’

After that they went on with their lives as usual, but Enjolras became more and more open about his need for physical affection. He’d loop his arm into Feuilly’s as they walked, he’d absently touch his back as he passed by him or even walk up to him, wrap his arms around him from behind and rest his chin on his shoulder. It was like living with an overgrown cat.

Feuilly was somewhat surprised at how much he didn’t mind his attention. Before long he caught himself actually seeking it out. He’d join Enjolras on the sofa as he read and put his head on his lap and let the other play with his hair. The bed-sharing started that winter, under the pretence of saving on the firewood, but some nights they found themselves crawling to bed just for the sake of cuddling well after the weather turned warmer too. Sometimes when his friend stayed up too long, working on an article or composing a letter Feuilly’d gently stroke his arms and rub his shoulders until he relaxed and allowed him to coax him into bed.

They had to be careful of course. People could be vile and tongues were liable to waggling. If they ever would have been caught cuddling in bed the neighbours wouldn’t have cared what else they did or didn’t do in there. But one of the perks of living with the leader of a secret revolutionary group was that if he wanted something to stay hidden it stayed damn well hidden.

When asked if they planned on marriage, and if not, why, Feuilly claimed financial difficulties and a broken heart. He told and re-told the story of that one rejection in a way that left no doubt in the audience that his soul was shattered beyond repair and he would never love again. As for Enjolras, he simply shrugged and said he was considered the black sheep of the family and his relatives wished he didn’t further sully the family name by procreating. What no one needed to know was that Enjolras wasn’t living off of some easily retracted allowance but the inheritance from his father, and if he chose to marry his relatives couldn’t have done a damn thing to stop him. Not legally anyway.

***

A small snuffling sound broke Feuilly out of his reverie. Enjolras stretched beside him, then turned and propped his head up on Feuilly’s chest. Feuilly reached down and brushed a few strands of hair out of his friend’s face. It was a lot longer now – if not as long as it was in 1832, and streaked with white.

‘Good morning, good monsieur.’

Enjolras snuggled closer and turned his head to look at him.

‘And to you too, my good citizen.’

He used the formal ‘vous’, an awkward attempt to show respect turned affectionate teasing. Feuilly smiles fully now. He loved these early mornings, when Enjolras was soft, warm and unfocused, when his face didn’t yet harden into its habitual scowl and his gaze was yet to gain its sharpness.

‘What’s the time? Should we get up?’

‘No need. Combeferre only expects us by nine and it’s barely past six. Go back to sleep.’

Enjolras spent another moment looking at him, adoration clearly written on his face. Then he sighed and burrowed back into his friend’s embrace.  
All was well.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By modern standards they'd be a gay/homoromantic asexual and a straight man with a very low sex-drive but I don't suppose they'd have the proper vocabulary to express this.


End file.
